


Battle at the Tower of Joy

by HeavyShoegaze



Series: Arthur Dayne/Lyanna Stark Stories [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Self-Indulgent, Tower of Joy, Year of the False Spring, but not too self indulgent, how I'd do the Tower of Joy, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 22:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavyShoegaze/pseuds/HeavyShoegaze
Summary: Bloodraven shows Bran the last battle of Robert's Rebellion.





	Battle at the Tower of Joy

**Author's Note:**

> "In the dream his friends rode with him, as they had in life. Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory's father; faithful Theo Wull; Ethan Glover, who had been Brandon's squire; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of speech and gentle of heart; the crannogman, Howland Reed; Lord Dustin on his great red stallion. Ned had known their faces as well as he knew his own once, but the years leech at a man's memories, even those he has vowed never to forget. In the dream they were only shadows, grey wraiths on horses made of mist.
> 
> They were seven, facing three. In the dream as it had been in life. Yet these were no ordinary three. They waited before the round tower, the red mountains of Dorne at their backs, their white cloaks blowing in the wind. And these were no shadows; their faces burned clear, even now. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had a sad smile on his lips. The hilt of the greatsword Dawn poked up over his right shoulder. Ser Oswell Whent was on one knee, sharpening his blade with a whetstone. Across his white-enameled helm, the black bat of his House spread its wings. Between them stood fierce old Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. 
> 
> 'I looked for you on the Trident,' Ned said to them."

The Tower of Joy

 

The first thing Bran noticed about the next vision was the heat. Bran had never been south of Winterfell, and after making his way beyond the Wall, he’d almost grown used to the kind of penetrating cold that cut deep to the bone and the way the air cut like knives as he sucked it down his throat. This was a land of frost and snow and little else. So, when he felt the sun burning fiery brands on his forehead, even without opening his eyes Bran knew that he was in a faraway land. He kept his eyes closed tightly, trying to feel his surroundings. The wind blew softly and dryly, like the caress of his mother’s hand. He smelled dried grass and tasted sand in the air. Where was he, Bran wondered. Perhaps he was in the East, he thought, remembering Maester Lewin’s stories of the wonderous lands of Essos. Would he find himself in the Dothraki sea? Or the ruins of Valyria? Or the Golden Empire of Yi Ti or even the shadow lands of Asshai? The Three-Eyed Crow promised he could fly anywhere, at any time, and Bran knew there were an infinite number of possibilities.

The sound of men and horses disturbed the quiet peace, and Bran opened his eyes to see… his half-brother, Jon Snow.

 _Jon?_ Bran wondered, watching his brother hold the reins of a brown mare. Jon was framed against light brown rocks and sandy dunes. Bran knew he was in a vision – Jon clearly could not see him – but he was confused all the same. The last he’d seen Jon Snow was Queens Crown, when Jon escaped his wildling captors. He was a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, pledged to live and die at his post on the Wall. What was he doing here?

Jon himself was not the same as Bran remembered. He was a few years older, Bran could see that in the lines on his face. Jon had always shared their father’s grim, stoic visage, but it was even more pronounced here. He had deep lines on his forehead and dark rings under his eyes. His hair was longer too, coming down to his shoulders, and he wore a short-cropped beard, thicker than the patchy hair Bran remembered from their near encounter in Queen’s Crown. Furthermore, Jon had since abandoned his black leathers and furs for a brown leather doublet with a pair of grey direwolves at the collar. He didn’t seem very comfortable in these lands, no doubt as unused to the heat as Bran, for he had to repeatedly wipe the sweat from his brow.

Jon turned over his shoulder to say something, and Bran noted that he wasn’t alone. There were six men with him. Bran did not recognize any of them from the black brothers he’d met. Their presence made the matter even more confusing – when would Jon have deserted the Wall? And why had he come here? A proud man bearing himself like a lord rode up next to Jon on a great red war horse. He had a yellow shield bearing a sigil – a pair of crossed long axes with a crown between their points. _A man of House Dustin?_ Bran wondered. Maester Lewin had instructed him on the sigils of the noble and petty lords who were his father’s bannermen and his brother’s after him. Bran couldn’t remember any Lord Dustin, though. The last of that House had been a widow, and Jon didn’t look so much older than the last Bran saw of him.

As Jon turned back to face him, Bran noticed a few features that were… _odd_. Jon’s hair was straighter and browner, not like the dark curls that Jon had so lovingly grown out, and his eyes were lighter. The Jon that Bran knew had eyes so dark they looked black as night, but this Jon before him had eyes grey like a dense fog that stared off into the distance past Bran. Eyes like their father… furthermore, his face was longer, as was his nose, and he didn’t have the scars around Jon’s eyes Bran remembered. The biggest difference, though, were the direwolves that graced his banner and his arms. Bran had never seen his half-brother bear the sigil of their father’s house, but this man seemed willing to announce to the realm that he was a Stark. _I am no Stark, father,_ Bran remembered Jon saying when they found the direwolves. _No_ … this was not Jon Snow, but rather…

“Lord Eddard Stark,” a voice behind him intoned. Bran turned around and saw the Three-Eyed Crow behind him, clad in black with a single white dragon over his heart.

“That’s my father,” Bran said, realization dawning upon him. He turned back to see the man he’d thought to be his brother. It was not an older Jon Snow but a young Eddard Stark that faced him, Bran realized. He could see it now. Nevertheless, the resemblance was uncanny. Bran had always known that it was Jon who bore the closest resemblance to their father, but he never knew how very alike they were.

"The hour is twilight, my Lord, and a storm approaches," the Dustin man said grimly, bringing his great red horse to his young liege's side. "Should we find refuge or press on?"

Jon - no,  _Lord Stark_ \- frowned and cast a look back to the rest of his men, and Bran knew who they were. The Dustin man was Lord Willam Dustin, and the man with a silver fist over red emblazoned over his doublet was Ethan Glover. Ser Mark Ryswell came up next - Bran recognized the black stallion of his House's sigil - and his face betrayed his exhaustion. Beside him were Theo Wull and Ser Martyn Cassel, Ser Rodrick’s elder brother. He looked much like Jory, just few years older. Lastly, there was a little man struggling to stay on his horse. He bore a trident and a net instead of the usual longsword or shield. He was clad in dark green, with a lizard lion on his shoulder and a hood over his head.

“And that is Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch,” the Crow said. “Meera’s father.”

"We are a few days from Starfall..." Lord Stark trailed off, his words dying in his throat. The name of the castle pricked something in Bran's memory. "Tonight, we should take rest there," he said, pointing over Bran's shoulder.

“Then, this place must be…” Bran followed the Northmen’s eyes to see a tall watchtower jutting high up the mountain. It overlooked the pass below, the Prince’s Pass, if Bran remembered correctly.

“The Tower of Joy,” the Crow said grimly, his voice a cold contrast to the tower’s name. “Come. We shall await your father and his men at the base.”

 

Bran followed the Crow eagerly as they walked up the steps ahead of his father. Lord Stark had taken his time, his men tired from their climb, but Bran couldn’t wait. This tower had been the site of the last battle of Robert’s Rebellion, where his father had found Lady Lyanna Stark dead – after slaying three knights of the King’s Guard. He raced up the path, to the base of the tower, enjoying the feel of his legs moving and pushing against the ground and the taste of the high mountain air. For the first time in a while, he felt like a boy again, the boy who’d eagerly awaited the King’s arrival from the top of Winterfell.

The first person that Bran found at the tower was a knight, clad head to toe in white. He bore the white scaled armor of the King’s Guard, and there was an ornate helm with a great black bat spreading his wings on top resting on a rock next to him. The white cloak of his order hung from clasps under his shoulder pauldrens, blowing slightly in the breeze. He was down on one knee, a longsword in one hand and a whetstone in the other. The knight ran the stone down his blade effortlessly, letting the wind flow through his straw-blonde hair. He had a touch of stubble, but otherwise seemed well groomed. He looked a proper knight, and Bran could guess who he was.

“That is Ser Oswell Whent,” Bran said aloud. The Crow nodded. Ser Oswell looked in Bran’s direction, and for a second, Bran could have sworn the knight had heard him. Whent looked not at Bran, though, but past him, to where the Northmen approached. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He didn’t stand to attention or turn to leave. Instead, he continued sharpening his blade. Confused, Bran looked up to tower. It was a great stone structure, taller than any tower in Winterfell, that much Bran was sure. Behind it, the dying sun set behind great red mountains, casting the sky in shades of orange and red. There was a winding set of stairs that wrapped around the round tower, leading to a balcony at the top. A knight stood there, also clad in white, and he turned to face the in the direction of the incoming men. He leaned into the doorway, pausing to speak to someone inside, and walked down the stairs.

As he reached the base, Bran noticed that he carried a shield in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of his broadsword. He was an older man, his hair and beard were once black but had since greyed, well on their way to white. He’d cut his hair shorter than Ser Oswell, trimming it close on the sides and back and sweeping it back on top. Bran knew he had been handsome in his youth, and even in his advanced age the man carried himself with the ease of one with a quarter his years. He watched the path stoically, his face betraying none of his thoughts.

“Ser Gerold Hightower... The White Bull?” Bran asked the Crow. Ser Gerold was an old statue, hard and rigid but battered by unyielding winds. The ornate coloring and decoration were there, but time had worn it away, revealing the hard stone underneath. Though chipped in places and aged, enough was there in Ser Gerold to know the aged knight was more than just a shadow of his youth.

“The Lord Commander of the King’s Guard,” he replied, his one eye watching the top of the tower. Bran followed his gaze, knowing what he sought. There was one knight left to be seen, a man whose reputation had fallen into legend. A man so renowned Bran wondered if there was a boy alive who didn’t know his name.

Sure enough, a third knight in white emerged from the tower. Bran held a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the light, as he watched. The man paused at the top of the stairs and turned back as if to say something. He hesitated for just a fraction of a second before making his way down the stairs to join Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold.

“Ser Arthur Dayne…” Bran breathed in disbelief.

“ _The Sword of the Morning,”_ the Crow said, the barest hints of admiration in his voice. If Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Gerold Hightower were famed and valiant, then Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, was the finest knight of his day.

Ser Arthur came to the bottom and stood close to Bran, next to Ser Gerold with Ser Oswell still on his knee on the other side of the Lord Commander. He was the tallest of them and the broadest too, standing defiant and proud as the Northmen approached, coming into view. Ser Arthur had hair as silver as his cloak and strikingly deep violet eyes. He looked almost like a Targaryen, but Bran knew instead that he bore the traits of the ancient House Dayne, a small House in Dorne whose knights nevertheless rivaled the best of the Seven Kingdoms. His armor was pure white and more engraved and enameled than any Bran had ever seen. He bore it well too, his armaments were polished to a mirror shine and his silver curls, which looked to be about chin-length, were tucked behind his ear. There was not a bead of sweat on his person, and Bran had to remember that Ser Arthur was a Dornishman, born not far from here. The greatsword Dawn, the ancestral sword of the Daynes of Starfall, was strapped across his back, the ornate silver hilt shining brightly over his shoulder. There were more than a dozen bright purple amethysts in the crossguard in between the woven silver and one as large as Bran’s fist in the pommel. The jewels glowed as if lit by an inner flame, and they sparkled the same haunting color as Ser Arthur's eyes.

For all his impressive presence, Ser Arthur Dane appeared to be the youngest of the three knights who stood watching the seven men from the North dismount and tie their horses. He looked far younger than Ser Jaime did when he came to Winterfell, likely not much older to the young Lord of Winterfell who faced him. Ser Arthur was as handsome as the knights of Sansa’s songs, with sharp cheekbones, a hard jaw, a dashing face, and soft, almost _wet_ eyes, and Bran was certain he’d had maidens swooning left and right as he rode through King’s Landing.

As Lord Stark and his men walked up to them, Ser Arthur gave them a sad smile. Bran’s Lord father, not a year older than twenty in this vision, must have known them too, for he looked from the knights to the top of the tower and back, his eyes tracking over each of them, one by one.

“Ser Hightower…” he said, his voice heavy with confusion. “…Ser Whent…” He paused over Ser Arthur, swallowing before speaking. “…Ser Dayne.” The six other men looked at the knights and then to each other, their postures and expressions ranging from determination to nervousness. Ser Martyn Cassell in particular stared at Ser Oswell, and Bran remembered Jory telling him the two knights had met once, when Lord Rickard Stark rode to Riverrun to meet Lord Hoster Tully and his wife – Bran’s grandmother, Minisa Whent. It occurred then to Bran that the Northmen had not expected to find these knights before them, and their disbelief showed.

While the Northerners where confused and speechless, the three knights of the King’s Guard were perfectly reserved. Ser Gerold stood proud and stoic, his eyes facing ahead of him. Bran could see him weighing the seven men before him. Despite the fact that Bran _knew_ which eight of the ten men before him would not live to see the sun rise again, he still found himself dreading for his father. Ser Gerold seemed unafraid and fierce, as if there was nothing to fear in the company of Northmen who’d tracked him and his men. If Ser Gerold was stoic, then Ser Oswell was anything but. He remained on one knee, the sound of his whetstone running down his blade echoing through the silence. Though his face was carefully schooled to betray nothing, his eyes glared at Lord Eddard with fury. From what Bran could remember, the Whents of Harrenhal had not survived Robert’s Rebellion, and Bran wondered how many brothers Ser Oswell had buried.

Ser Arthur, though, simply tilted his head. He had that same sad smile that Bran remembered from Winterfell, the one Robb bore when he’d had to tell Bran he’d never walk again.

“Lord Stark,” Ser Arthur replied in acknowledgement, his voice soft but strong and unwavering nevertheless.

“I looked for you on the Trident,” Lord Stark said slowly, looking at Ser Arthur. The Dornishman didn’t reply – instead, Ser Gerold addressed the Lord of Winterfell.

“We weren’t there,” he said baldly. His eyes never left Lord Stark, and it was Bran’s father who broke first.

“Woe to the Usurper had we been,” Ser Oswell added, spitting out his moniker for King Robert Baratheon like it was poison. He slid the whetstone down his blade one last time, the scrape ringing out in the open air, and cast it aside. He stood up and eyed the edge of the blade, honed sharp enough to shave with. Ser Oswell held his helm in one hand and casually pointed his longsword at Lord Stark as he took his place next to his Lord Commander. Lord Dustin and Theo Wull flinched, and Ser Oswell chuckled darkly, little humor in his laugh. “Your friend, the Usurper, would _lie beneath the ground_ had we been there, Stark. And all his savage dogs with him.” His voice was cool and steady, but Bran could hear the traces of anger and… _grief_? Ser Oswell didn’t speak of the dead Dragon Prince like a man forced to do his duty, but rather the way the Lords Glover and Umber and Karstark spoke of Bran’s father when Robb called his banners. Bran could remember Theon and Robb talk about mounting every Lannister head on a spike in much the same way that Ser Oswell sneered at Lord Stark and his men.

“Then why weren’t you there to protect your Prince, Ser?” Lord Stark bristled. Deep lines crossed his forehead as he frowned, and Bran was struck again by how much he looked like Jon. “Or you, Ser Arthur. _Rhaegar_ now lies beneath the ground,” he said, turning to the Dornish knight.

“Ser Arthur was Prince Rhaegar’s closest friend,” Bran said quietly to himself. “Like Robb and Jon…”

“Closer,” the Three-eyed Crow corrected. “Ser Arthur Dayne was the Prince’s closest confidant, closer to him than the Prince’s own wife. He was the only one who knew Prince Rhaegar’s heart, and there were no secrets between the two. They were one soul in two bodies, never parted.”

“But…” Bran trailed off, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue. He’d heard a thousand stories of the battle fought at the base of the Tower of Joy, but seeing the prelude before his eyes, nothing made sense.

“His Grace decided our place was here,” Ser Arthur replied, as if that explained everything. Perhaps it did, Bran thought. A knight of the King’s Guard swore to obey the King and defend the life and honor of him and his family. Honor demanded he remain here in the middle of nowhere if the Mad King willed it so.

Even still, something wasn’t right.

“When King’s Landing fell, Ser Jaime Lannister slew your King with a golden sword… I’d have thought that was your place. Where were _you_?” Lord Stark asked of Ser Gerold. It was a legitimate question to ask the Lord Commander of the King’s Guard, Bran thought, one he’d never bothered to wonder when Lord Stark had recounted the tale. He turned to the Crow, but Ser Gerold spoke before he could ask.

“Far away,” Ser Gerold said resolutely, “else Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and the Prince Aegon after him, and our false brother would burn in Seven Hells.”

“Ser Gerold Hightower came here from King’s Landing to find Prince Rhaegar Targaryen,” the Crow explained to Bran. “Rhaegar returned to the capital to lead the loyalist armies against your father and Robert Baratheon, and Ser Gerold Hightower remained here with Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Arthur Dayne.”

“Why didn’t he return with the Prince?” Bran asked, confused. A knight of the King’s Guard belonged beside his King, that was what he’d always been told. But the Lord Commander of the King’s Guard himself was by his own admission hundreds of leagues away from the King he’d sworn to defend.

The Crow didn’t respond.

“I came on Storm’s End to lift the siege,” Lord Stark told them, “and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them.”

“Our knees do not bend so easily,” Ser Arthur scoffed. For a brief second, his handsome features twisted into a disdainful sneer. Bran thought of the knights of Aerys’ King’s Guard who _had_ bent the knee to King Robert: Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Barristan Selmy. He knew what Ser Arthur’s opinion of Ser Jaime was – Ser Arthur’s eyes had turned hard and cold at the mention of his _false brother_ , as Ser Gerold Hightower called him. What did the great Arthur Dayne think of Barristan the Bold? Was he a false brother too?

“Ser Barristan Selmy was still at death’s door when your father came here to find his sister,” the Crow answered his unspoken question. “Though I’ve no doubt they’d see him much the same for kneeling to the Usurper.”

 _What was Ser Barristan to do?_ Bran wondered, _fight until the death, even when all was lost?_ That certainly what these three knights intended to do. Neither Ser Oswell nor Ser Gerold showed any degree of regard to King Robert or the men who helped him win his throne. And Ser Arthur… Ser Arthur seemed ready to do his duty, whatever the cost.

“Ser Willam Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with Queen Rhaella and your King Viserys,” Lord Stark said. “I thought you might have sailed with them.”

“ _Prince_ Viserys,” Ser Oswell corrected. Before Lord Stark could question the distinction, he continued. “And Ser Willam is a good man, a noble knight and true…”

“But not of the King’s Guard,” Ser Gerold finished plainly. “The King’s Guard does not flee.”

“Then… _or now_ ,” Ser Arthur said, donning his beautiful white helm.

“We swore a vow.” Ser Gerold explained gently and not unkindly, as if to a young child and not a mortal foe. His voice was gruff and heavy, as if weighed down by a thousand deaths, and for a moment he seemed a hundred years old.

“And now it…”

A piercing scream cut off Ser Arthur as he reached to unclasp Dawn from his back. Bran and the Northmen looked up to the top of the tower, where it sounded like a woman was dying.

“That’s my Aunt Lyanna, isn’t it,” Bran said quietly. The Crow nodded. Bran looked at the Northmen, who were still staring at the tower. Martyn Cassel, whose family had served the Starks in unfailing loyalty for generations, dropped his shield in shock. He didn’t even bother to pick it up. Unsurprisingly, Lord Stark seemed particularly affected. His face had turned pale, and he mouthed the word _Lyanna_. Bran had never seen his father so unnerved. Lord Howland Reed was beside him, gripping his trident tightly. Bran turned to the knights of the King’s Guard, who stood unmoved. They didn’t seem affected by Lyanna’s scream – they didn’t even turn to look. _They know_ , Bran realized, sickened. _They know she’s hurt. They know she’s dying._

“Why are they standing there?” Bran asked the Crow. “Why aren’t they doing something?” These were _knights_ , men who’d sworn to the Maid to protect all women. Why were they stoic and unfeeling when Lady Lyanna Stark was crying for help?

In truth, Bran knew the answer. These knights had died at this tower, and for all that Bran and Robb and Theon had loved this story, they had died to keep Bran’s father from seeing his sister.

“They were her captors,” Bran spat, disgusted. “These knights… they say they’re so honorable and true, but they stand here as jailors. How can that be their duty? While everyone else died, they were here… letting Aunt Lyanna die. And they feel nothing.”

“Feel nothing?” the Crow asked grimly.

Bran walked around to observe the faces of the three knights, and he realized his initial assessment was wrong – they _weren’t_ unmoved. Ser Gerold looked ahead, staring Lord Stark straight in the eyes, but his mouth was curled in a grim frown. There was just the faintest tick in his jaw, as if he’d had to clench his teeth to bite down any emotion, as if it took all his effort to maintain his stoic façade. Ser Gerold reminded Bran of Maester Lewin after they learned of Lord Stark’s death. The wise old Maester had kept his composure, even as he and Bran bid Robb and their mother goodbye for the last time. It was necessary, Robb and Bran needed his advice and counsel more than ever, and Maester Lewin put his duty before everything else. Bran had to look closely to see the way Lord Stark’s death had grieved him, but once he could see it, that Maester Lewin was deeply saddened by the murder of the man he’d so faithfully advised. Ser Gerold was much the same, holding down his sorrow so he may better do what he thought must be done.

Ser Oswell gripped the hilt of his longsword tightly, staring at his reflection in the blade. For a moment, he avoided the eyes of the Northmen. He had the barest trace of a guilty look on his face, Bran could see it now. The knight failed to school his face back to its stoic resolve like Ser Gerold had done, and he flipped the visor of his greathelm down to hide his face. Before the black bat obscured him, Bran caught a last look at Ser Oswell’s face. It was twisted by guilt and grief.

And Ser Arthur… Ser Arthur hung his head in shame, closing his eyes. His flowing silver curls fell down to frame the sides of his face. The Dornishman shook his head slightly, his face unreadable save for a single tear that fell from the corner of his eye. If Ser Oswell looked like the vengeful Lord Karstark and Ser Gerold the solemn Maester Lewin, then Ser Arthur’s expression resembled that of Bran’s Lady mother when she hugged him goodbye for the last time. She had been beside herself with anguish, holding together only because Robb needed her to be brave.

In Ser Arthur Dayne Bran saw the ghost of another famed knight of the King’s Guard, another known for his chivalry and valor despite the unworthiness of the King he served. Another knight who chose his duty over his heart. But who would be Ser Arthur’s Queen Naerys? Bran looked back up to the top of the tower, then back to Ser Arthur, who was silent.

He understood.

“He would not be the first knight of the King’s Guard to give away his heart, or to find it in conflict with his vows,” the Crow said quietly, as though Ser Arthur’s tragic love was common knowledge. “Nor would he be the last,” he added wryly. “But love is the death of duty, and Ser Arthur Dayne is no Jaime Lannister.” _They wrote a hundred songs about Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys_ , Bran thought. _There are as many sung to honor the Sword of the Morning, but never do they mention my Aunt Lyanna_.

Lord Stark looked at Ser Arthur strangely, as if seeing him for the first time. “Ser Arthur…” he pleaded, turning to the legendary knight. “Please let me see my sister.”

Ser Arthur paused at the broken sound of Lord Stark’s voice, the pauldrens on his shoulders sagging in resignation. He looked defeated, like they all had when news of Lord Stark’s execution made its way to Winterfell. For a brief moment, Bran forgot what he knew about what happened here and thought Ser Arthur might let them pass.

Ser Gerold looked to Ser Arthur, but where Bran expected a gruff rebuke and a cold reminder of their solemn duty, all he saw was a sad, knowing smile replace the grim frown on the older knight’s face. _He would not be the first knight of the King’s Guard to lose his heart_ , Bran remembered. Ser Gerold looked at the famous Dornish knight with sympathy and understanding before turning to face forwards, and Ser Arthur Dayne smiled as he looked Bran’s father in the eye, that single tear drying in the dying Dornish sun. As his gauntleted fingers deftly worked the greatsword off his back, Bran noticed the red stains on the shining engraved steel covering his hands.

Wet blood, in the shape of a pair of small hands.

“I wish you… _good fortune_ … in all your wars to come,” he said as he held his sheathed weapon in his left hand.

“There is naught but death down this path,” Lord Stark pleaded.

“There is naught but death down any path,” Ser Arthur responded. “For _all_ men must die. But while our King draws breath we will never surrender. _That_ is our charge, our war as knights of the King’s Guard.”

Ser Arthur drew the scabbard off of Dawn and cast it aside, revealing a blindingly brilliant blade. In the twilight, Dawn’s pale blade was alive with light. It looked as bright as the sun, shining with such an intensity both Bran and Lord Stark had to avert their eyes. Ser Arthur looked less like a man and more like the Warrior himself in the wash of light as he spoke, holding the sword in both hands. Bran noticed a small crown of violet flowers, the kind of circlet awarded to the victors of grand tourneys to give to the fairest maidens, around Dawn’s blade, wrapped around the crossguard.

There was another scream, loud and pained. Ser Arthur paused for a brief second, tilting his head as if listening for something - like Jon had done what seemed like a century ago... in the Wolfswood where they found the direwolves. He must have heard something, for he nodded slightly, whispered something, and smiled softly, sadly. “And _now_ that war begins,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, closing the visor over his face. Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent followed suit, the White Bull drawing his sword and shield and the last Black Bat of Harrenhal raising his longsword. They held their heads high in defiance, standing proud and tall as the sun vanished behind the Red Mountains.

“No,” Lord Stark said sadly, reaching for his longsword. “No, now it ends.”

The Northmen drew their weapons, and there was a brief still as the two sides stared each other down, each waiting to see who would make the first move. Bran held his breath, his stomach twisting into knots as he waited for the first move.

It was Lord Stark who attacked first, charging with a shout. He held his longsword with both hands and swung at Ser Arthur. The other Northmen charged behind him, surrounding the knights of the King’s Guard.  _My father defeated Ser Arthur Dayne in single combat,_ Bran thought, waiting with bated breath as Lord Stark lunged...

Ser Arthur deftly parried the attack with a flick of his wrists and struck Bran’s father on the temple with the pommel of Dawn faster than Bran could blink. Lord Stark’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he crumpled to the dirt, unconscious.

Well. That was not nearly as grand as Bran had expected. For all that he, Robb, Theon, and Arya had excitedly reenacted how they thought the battle must have occurred, he never assumed his father would fall so quickly.

The six other men charged, and Bran could only watch as the three white knights moved together as one. Ser Gerold would block a blow and Ser Oswell would counter, or Ser Arthur would dance between three Northmen, each unable to land a single strike.

Lord Reed was the next to fall. He cast a net at Ser Arthur, but Dawn cut through the twine and then his wooden trident too, leaving Lord Reed with nothing but splinters. The Crannogman pulled a dagger as Ser Arthur fended off blows from Ser Mark Ryswell and Ser Martyn Cassell, but Ser Oswell Whent was quicker. The Black Bat stepped wide of a lunge from Theo Wull and over Lord Stark’s collapsed form and opened Lord Reed from hip to collarbone with the tip of his longsword. Lord Reed dropped his dagger and fell to the ground with a strangled cry of agony. Lord Reed’s torso was covered in blood, as were the sands around him, and he held both arms around the wound as necessary to keep his innards inside. Though the wound might not necessarily be fatal – Bran _knew_ it wasn’t fatal – Lord Reed’s pained moans were loud enough to make Bran want to look away.

Ser Oswell’s attention was drawn away by Theo Wull and Ethan Glover, who’s mace glanced off the side of Whent’s helm, rattling the King’s Guard knight. Ser Oswell was shaken, but he held his sword high and proud, inviting the two Northmen to attack. Attack they did, Glover first, then Wull, and Ser Oswell parried their blows away with ease, his steps only barely faltering at first. As the two men pressed on, though, Bran noticed Ser Oswell start to stumble. Glover’s mace caught on his elbow, and Bran heard the faint crack of bone fracturing under the caving steel armor. Ser Oswell did not cry out as Lord Reed did, though, letting the arm fall uselessly to his side and wielding the sword with just the one hand in defiance.

As Ser Oswell found himself in dire straits, the two other knights came to his aid. Ser Arthur came first, pushing Ser Mark Ryswell to the ground and rushing past him. Dawn whistled through the air as he parried a blow from Glover meant for his sworn brother. His attentions divided between Cassell, Ryswell, and Glover, Ser Arthur swung Dawn with blinding speed, trying to cover most of Ser Oswell’s sides now that the knight had only one working arm. Bran wouldn’t have noticed from the way Whent carried himself, though. Despite the mangled arm at his side, blood trailing from cracks in the broken steel, Ser Oswell still swung his longsword artfully, matching most of Theo Wull’s attacks. Even still, Bran noticed the way Ser Oswell had slowed, the blood loss slowly taking its toll. Though Ser Arthur managed to protect Whent from most of the Northmen, Bran knew that he’d only bought the Riverman a brief reprieve.

Ser Gerold must have seen what Bran had. When Bran looked to Ser Gerold, who had fared far more successfully against the sole Lord Dustin, he saw the White Bull pushing towards Ser Oswell. The Lord of Barrowtown’s axe, the same one that featured so prominently on his sigil, stuck in the white oak of the Lord Commander’s shield. Ser Gerold blocked the high blow and brought his own sword low, cleaving halfway through Lord Dustin’s leg with a single slice. The blood sprayed from severed arteries in Lord Dustin’s calf, and as the aged Lord fell to his knees. Ser Gerold plunged his sword through Lord Dustin’s stomach. The Lord Commander drew it harshly, so harshly that the blade rang out as it scraped bone, leaving Lord Willam Dustin to die.

But Lord Dustin was not the only one to fall. Bran turned around to see his father, still struggling to get to his feet, jabbing through the gaps in Ser Oswell’s leg armor with his longsword. Ser Oswell stumbled, his best efforts to continue the fight precluded by his newly found lameness. Ser Oswell still blocked Theo Wull’s newfound aggression, the other man sensing weakness and seeking to end the fight soon, but Lord Stark’s blade stabbed him again, this time in the side, and the young Theo Wull finished him with a thrust to the neck.

The effect of Ser Oswell’s death on the other two King’s Guard knights was palpable. Ser Arthur paused only for a mere second before a cut aimed to his head from Ser Martyn Cassell drew his attention, and his sword, away. Hearing Ser Oswell get struck down, Ser Gerold turned around to avenge his brother-in-arms, one of the last of the loyal men in his command. He tried to charge Lord Stark, but a not-yet dead Lord Dustin grappled the knight in a bear hug, wrestling him to the ground and knocking the helm from his head. As the two men fell with a crash, Lord Stark and Theo Wull charged the Lord Commander, the former still slightly wobbly from Ser Arthur’s earlier blow. Ser Gerold pushed the dying Lord of Barrowtown off of him, stabbing him through the heart with his sword for good measure, but Lord Stark grabbed Dustin’s axe and brought it down on the now exposed head of Ser Gerold Hightower.

Bran squeezed his eyes shut, flinching at the sound of the axe splitting Ser Gerold’s skull. He turned to Ser Arthur, who had stopped to see his Lord Commander die before him, surrounded by adversaries. Ser Arthur paused for a moment as Ser Mark Ryswell, Ethan Glover, Ser Martyn Cassell, Theo Wull, and Lord Stark held their weapons, eying him down like a pack of wolves. _One against five_ , Bran thought, watching as Ser Arthur twirled his sword at his surrounding foes. _Is this how it ends_?

Ser Arthur Dayne seemed not to think so, for he held himself up in defiance, as if he hadn’t just watched his brothers-in-arms breathe their last. He held Dawn up with one hand, pointing it at each man in turn, as his other hand trailed down to the sidearm at his hip. Bran watched slack-jawed, as Ser Arthur drew a second sword. No, Ser Arthur Dayne was not finished. Not yet.

This time, Ser Arthur struck first, cutting at Ser Mark Ryswell. If Bran had been amazed before by the swordplay of the three King’s Guard knights, then what Ser Arthur was capable of stunned him silent. Bran watched as Ser Arthur parried and weaved, moving with a grace that should be impossible for a man of Ser Arthur’s size, let alone one carrying almost eight stone worth of steel armor. One man would slash at Ser Arthur’s head, another would stab at his back, and Ser Arthur would parry them both in one smooth movement, twirling the blades with beautiful, deadly flourishes. He looked more like Sansa dancing to music than Jon or Robb beating each other with their swords. It was as if Ser Arthur could see the future, as if could read every attack in advance.

Bran felt his neck ache as he whipped his head from side to side trying to keep up with the fight. Most of the attacks came from the Northmen: a mace from Glover to the head, a cut from Theo Wull to the legs, or a thrust from Ser Martyn Cassell. But Ser Arthur was unfazed, blocking and parrying them all as he spun and dodged. His blades spun like shining discs of death, moving in response to attacks both seen and unseen. Ser Arthur backed just out of reach of Lord Stark’s sword and pushing Ser Mark Ryswell in between them to throw the Lord of Winterfell off balance. Ser Mark tried to attack, but Ser Arthur caught the blade with his swords and pushed Ser Mark’s weapon back into his face, slashing his throat with all three blades while Lord Stark could only look on in horror. Ser Arthur tripped Lord Stark and pushed the dead Ryswell knight over top of him, distracting him while Ser Arthur turned to Ethan Glover.

Ser Martyn and Theo Wull were only staggered for a moment, charging Ser Arthur while Ethan Glover started to fall against the Sword of the Morning’s assault. Wull, with Ser Oswell Whent’s blood still on his longsword, struck first. Ser Arthur parried his blow at Ser Martyn, who ducked under the blade. The agile, nimble Ser Arthur Dayne had danced circles around the Northmen, never letting them surround him like they had done Ser Gerold or surprise him like they did Ser Oswell. Ser Martyn seemed to realize this, trying to trap Ser Arthur against a large rock. With his wooden shield bearing a set of small direwolves, Ser Martyn pushed forwards until Ser Arthur’s armored feet clicked against the brown sandstone. It seemed like the end, with Ser Arthur Dayne closely surrounded by three Northmen with no hope of escape.

Ser Martyn Cassell, Theo Wull, and Ethan Glover each attacked, and Ser Arthur spun on his toes, another feat Bran would not have thought possible for a large man in full plate armor. The move happened in the blink of an eye, but Ser Arthur blocked one blow while stabbing Ser Martyn through the thigh with Dawn. He threw the longsword in his right hand into Ethan Glover’s face, stabbing him through the right eye and out the other side, and the young man dropped to the ground, dead. Ser Arthur drew Dawn from Ser Martyn’s leg, and the man dropped his sword and collapsed with a cry. Ser Martyn raised his shield with both hands to cover his head and chest, but Ser Arthur instead parried a strike from Theo Wull, sending his sword flying, followed by his head with a single clean stroke. He jumped - in full armor no less - up to the rock and leapt down onto the fallen Ser Martyn Cassell. Ser Arthur stabbed downwards with Dawn, bringing his full weight and strength down with the blow. Dawn split through the seams in the wooden shield and through Ser Martyn’s ringmail, and the leal household knight of Winterfell let out one last cry as the shining sword speared his heart.

By the time Ser Martyn Cassell died, Lord Stark had just managed to pull himself free of Ser Mark Ryswell’s corpse. He stared at Ser Arthur in something between shock and horror, grey eyes darting from the armed knight to the dead bodies littered around them. The sand soaked up blood from death wounds and cuts as eight warm bodies lay around the final two combatants. _Seven,_ Bran mentally amended, hearing Lord Reed’s moan in pain. The little Lord of Greywater Watch was still alive, if only just.

Lord Stark pulled himself to his feet, meeting Ser Arthur’s eyes as the Dornish King’s Guard knight slowly drew Dawn from Ser Martyn’s body, the light of the legendary sword obscured by a coat of rusty, drying blood. The knight stood as still as a statue, harsh and inhuman, and he was covered in the blood of his fallen foes, from this steel helm to his armored toes, from the formerly clean white cloak to the drying flowers with red splattered on their violet petals wrapped around Dawn’s hilt. Lord Stark paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Half his face was obscured by blood from a gash over his brow, and his chest and shoulders heaved with heavy breaths.

The two men could not have been more different.

“He’s better than my father,” Bran said quietly, still in disbelief at what he saw as Lord Stark charged, alone, out of breath, and outmatched. _He killed so many men, and with such ease…_ Bran thought, remembering the deftness with which he sent poor Theo Wull’s head twenty paces from his shoulders with a single motion.

“Far better,” the Three-Eyed Crow said wryly over the sound of the first clash, a block from Ser Arthur. “Perhaps even better than my uncle or my brothers…”

Lord Stark clashed again with Ser Arthur again, trying to swing at the knight’s helmeted head. Ser Arthur stepped back only slightly, letting the exhausted Lord Stark fall out of balance and attacking. He brought Dawn up so the edge kissed the wolf’s throat, leaving a slight red line. Ser Arthur paused a fraction of a second before delivering the killing blow, though, and instead smacked Bran’s father hard in the temple with the flat of Dawn.

“But that makes no sense…” Bran whispered as Lord Stark as struck again, each slash more ineffectual than the last. Raggedy and bloody, the young Lord of Winterfell grunted and cried with each fatigued swing, the exhausted desperation on his face a cold contrast to the expressionless steel of Ser Arthur’s helm. “My father defeated him. Slew him in single combat”

“Did he, now?”

“He must have,” Bran said, with the determination of his father, turning to the Crow to see his single eye still focused on Ser Arthur Dayne and Lord Eddard Stark. “I’ve heard the story a thousand times. My father wouldn’t lie about that.”

Lord Stark attacked again with a desperate fury, but Bran knew that his father would not win. Ser Arthur parried a blow down and away, returning with a blow that grazed Lord Stark’s cheek, opening another bloody gash whose scar Bran knew from his own memories of his father. _Is he toying with my father?_ Bran wondered as Ser Arthur again struck a glancing blow where he no doubt could have slain Bran’s father. Ser Arthur did not seem to be playing with his foe as a dog would a hare, though. Rather, he seemed in conflict with himself, wanting both to slay the Lord of Winterfell while being unable to do what he’d so easily done to Cassell and Glover, Ryswell and Wull. Lord Stark futilely wiped the blood from his face and attacked, his swings getting sloppier and sloppier. Ser Arthur sidestepped another clumsy swing and struck Lord Stark in the face with a steel fist, and Bran winced at the sound of bones in his father’s nose cracking. Lord Stark stumbled back, desperately swinging at Ser Arthur. The knight caught Bran’s father in the sword hand, slicing bloody across the knuckles, and Bran’s father dropped his sword. Ser Arthur followed the disarm with a knee to the stomach and another blow to the head with the pommel of Dawn, and Lord Stark fell hard on his back with a loud thud. Lord Stark tried to get up, but as he raised his head, he found the tip of Dawn pointed in his face right between his eyes. Exhausted and resigned, Lord Stark closed his eyes and his head fell back into the dirt and sand, his chest heaving for breath, his mien bloody and defeated.

“He lost,” Bran said dully, unsure what to make of this. He didn’t need to look to the Crow to see that he was nodding in agreement.

Ser Arthur, dirty and covered in blood, still shone in victory, and Bran understood why so many sang tales of the deadliest knight who ever lived. He held Dawn firmly and purposefully as he brought the tip down to the apple of Lord Stark’s throat, prepared to deal the fatal blow. Bran waited in horror for the final thrust to kill his father when an interruption cut through the silence.

“She loved you,” a voice croaked painfully. Bran’s head jerked so fast his neck throbbed, and he saw Lord Howland Reed propped up weakly against a small tree, seated at the base under the little shade of the leafless branches. “Lyanna… she told Benjen and I of the Godswood… of what truly happened in Harrenhal. She told us what you did for the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

“The Knight of the Laughing Tree?” Bran mouthed. He’d heard the name before, from Meera’s story, but what the avenging mystery knight had to do with Ser Arthur Dayne eluded him. Bran turned to the Crow, but frustratingly, no answers came.

“You were her hero, Dayne,” Lord Reed continued, “her shining knight. We do not hold knighthood in such high esteem up North, as she likely told you…” Bran noticed Ser Arthur nodding slightly, his face and his weapon still trained on Lord Stark. “… but she could not stop talking of how wonderful and chivalrous you were, of how you were the most perfect knight who ever lived.”

Ser Arthur reached up with his right hand, his off hand, and removed his helm, exposing his face to the twilight air. He cast it aside, letting the helm hit the ground with a soft clank, and Bran could see his face conflicted. He didn’t seem marred by exhaustion – Bran doubted his father had come even close to matching the most difficult opponent Ser Arthur had ever faced, not at the time of legends like Ser Barristan Selmy and King Robert Baratheon and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. No, something else shadowed Ser Arthur’s face, the subtle anguish of a man losing everything he loved. His bright violet eyes both stared directly at Lord Stark and also seemed to look at nothing in particular, the man behind them lost in thought as his weighed Lord Reed’s words.

“Please… let me see my sister, Ser,” Lord Stark rasped, pleading in a voice Bran had never heard from his stoic, strong father. “I beg of you... for Lyanna…”

 _"The things I do for love,"_ Ser Arthur said quietly, so softly that Bran was sure only he caught the words. For some reason, they made him shiver. Ser Arthur Dayne pulled Dawn away from Lord Stark’s neck and Bran’s father got to his feet with a struggle, his eyes hopeful. For the briefest of moments, Bran thought this vision might not end in more death, that some happiness might come of all this violence.

The air stilled, dark as night replaced the twilight and stars replaced the dying sun, and Bran waited for Ser Arthur to speak.

“Go home, Stark,” Ser Arthur said resignedly, breaking Bran’s heart, and that of his father. Lord Stark tried to object, but Ser Arthur spoke over him, his previously sad eyes hard and unyielding and his tone brokering no dissent. “Go back to your friend, the Usurper. Go back to that Tully wife you married instead of my sister. Go back to your frozen lair and your grey castle, your stone walls and your Godswood, and when you sit as your father did before that weirwood heart tree, pray to those Old Gods of yours that I never see you again.” Lord Stark tried to take a step forward, but Ser Arthur stopped him, bringing Dawn to bear. “I am Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, and sworn knight of the King’s Guard. I do not hold my vows lightly, and I do not now break them for _you_ ,” he said sharply.

There was a brief pause as Ser Arthur turned around, staring at the great Tower of Joy. His words tumbled and churned in Bran’s thoughts, and Bran stared at his father, bloody, weary, and almost broken.

But not quite broken.

Bran almost didn’t know what he was seeing, not until he saw his father eye Ser Arthur right in front of him as his one good hand trailed slowly down to the dagger at his hip.

“No!” Bran shouted, as his father stabbed Ser Arthur through the back of his neck. The vision faded as he turned angrily to the Crow, and Bran was brought roughly back to the hollow weirwood, where he lay impotently, a crippled boy in the cold snow staring at the gnarled old man in his throne of branches.

“Your visions are lies!” Bran declared, anguished and angry. His view of the grim Three-Eyed Crow blurred through tears that came unbidden. “My father was a good man! He was an honorable man! He would never… he would never do that! He would never betray a man who spared his life!”

The Crow was silent, and instead Bran’s eyes rolled forcefully back in his head. He found himself back in Dorne, back in the past, and this time right in front of Ser Arthur for the last moments of the famed knight’s life. Lord Stark charged from over Ser Arthur’s shoulders, and Bran could see the sadness and betrayal in Ser Arthur’s violet eyes just as Lord Stark stabbed him.

Bran closed his eyes, refusing to believe.

When he opened them, he was off to the side, watching from Lord Reed’s view as the most honorable man in the world repaid mercy with murder. Again he closed his eyes before the blow struck, and again the Crow made him watch, this time from the balcony, watching overhead, wondering if the cruel fate that had befallen his family was justice from the Gods for this treachery.

Bran still refused to believe it, refused to believe this was the same Eddard Stark who had executed the deserter so long ago, the same one who’d taught him of _honor_ and _justice_.

The Crow stood him right next to Ser Arthur, and Bran was too horrified to look away as the finest knight who ever lived was cut down not in noble battle but by his father’s dagger in the back. Ser Arthur crashed to his knees, Dawn’s hilt slipping from his fingers, and blood streamed from his throat. It was only that Bran stood so close to Ser Arthur that he heard the knight speak his last words.

 _“Lya… Jon… forgive me,”_ Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, rasped on his hands and knees, tears in his eyes. He reached for Dawn, for the dying roses wrapped around the crossguard, and he breathed his last.

“Jon?” Bran said quietly, wondering why his half-brother’s name passed this knight’s lips. He turned to the Crow, still unable to meet the Crow’s eye. “Ser Arthur had a sister… Lady Ashara Dayne. She was Jon’s mother, then,” he mused aloud. For there was no other reason for the Sword of the Morning to know of Lord Stark’s bastard son. _Father never spoke of Ser Arthur Dayne around Jon,_ Bran realized. He'd recounted the tale,  _or a falsely abridged version of the tale,_ to Theon and Robb and Bran and even Arya when they pestered him enough. But he never spoke of it around Jon. Bran had always assumed this had to do with Jon's bastard status, that there was some strange social custom that forbade bastards from listening to stories on their father's lap. But now he knew better. Perhaps in Jon Eddard Stark saw the ghost of a man who'd shown him a kindness that he'd not returned.

The Crow did not answer, though, and Bran turned back to his father.

“Ned… Gods Ned, what have you _done_?” Lord Reed asked weakly, his voice horrified. Lord Stark dropped the bloody dagger as if the hilt was on fire, and Bran could see he was wan and shaking, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just done either. Lord Stark reached down and grabbed the closest weapon, Dawn, and turned to Lord Reed.

“Can you stand, Howland?” he asked. Lord Reed grimaced for a moment before nodding. “Close their eyes, if you can,” he said, gesturing lamely to the eight bodies strewn about.

“And you, Ned?” Lord Reed asked. Lord Stark looked to the top of the tower and gave his answer as the vision faded again, and Bran was pulled back to the present.

“I will find my sister,” Lord Stark said, his words following Bran.

“Why did you close it,” Bran asked the Crow. “What happened next?” He knew what happened next: his father found his sister, dead in a bed of blood. What he didn’t know was why he’d been shown this vision. Why show this fight at the base of the tower, unless the Gods took a delight in maligning his late father?

“To go forwards, Brandon Stark, you must first go back,” the Crow answered ominously.

 


End file.
